I had a fight with a guy I've been seeing, a nasty dragged tearful fight that took over our work days, through phone calls and texts. When I reluctantly agreed to hang out with him that night, and told him in a haughty tone I didn't care if he cooked or we went out, he clearly took the hint and we came here for dinner. When we pulled into the driveway, it was a shared driveway with the Denny's that sits in front of this place, and I was about to pitch a fit, so hey, there's a funny thing to do to a girl when you take her out to dinner, pretend you're pulling into Denny's. She'll feel like an ass.
It was a Thursday, 9pm, and the Delmonico's dining room was completely empty except for us and two middle aged women. My date was wearing a hoodie and I had the messy look of a loose angry girl, so our server probably underestimated our steakhouse savvy, but that's fair. He ordered a martini and I ordered a Hunter, which was rye and cherry brandy. We were both obviously determined to get drunk. The drink selection was fairly good. There was the omnipresent Moscow Mule (they are breeding like rats, and let's face it, they are the new rum and coke) but the Hunters cocktail and the Manhattan Noir I had later were both good and balanced, and most importantly strong. You must always sip a strong drink at a steakhouse, it goes best with the mellow lighting.
Our server warmed up to us when my date started debating between a seafood tower and a steak, or both. I guess realizing that the two hipster looking kids are going to drop at least a hundred easy is probably a relief when it's the end of your shift and these two are going to keep you past close. He ended up with some huge 42 oz bone-in monstrosity the server hand sold him, and I got the 7 oz center cut, done Christopher, because I'm not a caveman and I hate bones. It makes the whole meal seem so skeletal.
I ordered mine medium, because when I ordered my normal medium rare, the server made sure to describe exactly what that was going to mean and remind me I was at an actual steakhouse where they actually care about temp and I really didn't want it rare rare. It came out exactly how she said it would, perfectly pink and bloody in the center but with none of that gelatinous chew I hate about raw. The bearnaise sauce is a good call if you love sopping up pools of blood juice and cream, which honestly if you don't, you shouldn't be there in the first place. My friend ordered his Pittsburgh rare, and while to me it looked a little overdone, he was happy with it. The garlic mashers that came with mine were acceptable, they weren't special, but how many times can potatoes be special? The house salad were huge. The bread was a bit hard. But the steaks, which are the whole reason you come to steakhouse, were great. Also I learned the term Pittsburgh rare, which should totally be a band name.
We were the last to leave at 10:30, and to her credit, the server didn't mention it to us at all, and even tried to sell us on dessert, offered us coffee. I think that's the best customer service point I can give them, that no matter what you show up looking like, they treat you with the same amount of respect.
Verdict: the perfect place to randomly take a girl you've been fighting with if you want to get laid later.